


Unbearable Lightness of Being

by Tyone



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Pining, Post-TSoT, Pre-HLV, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 02:37:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6405376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyone/pseuds/Tyone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Or maybe in every universe, including the one he’s been placed in, John leaves, and Sherlock is left alone.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unbearable Lightness of Being

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yourbucky221B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourbucky221B/gifts), [unfictional](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unfictional/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Nieznośna lekkość bytu](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130971) by [Tyone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyone/pseuds/Tyone). 



> This is my first work in English, so please, be gentle.
> 
> Keep in mind that it was written before HLV.
> 
> Inspired by [Master and Hound](http://archiveofourown.org/works/681158) by joolabee. The title was taken from Milan Kundera's incredible novel.
> 
> I'd like to thank my wonderful betas: [**baileycantsleep**](http://baileycantsleep.tumblr.com/) and [**anythingbutdust**](http://anythingbutdust.tumblr.com/)

_Why is love always intensified by absence?_  
Audrey Niffenegger

*

Sherlock presses a tissue to his bleeding, almost certainly broken nose, watching John get in a cab without offering him even a single gaze. A minute later the cab drives away.

_I don’t care how you faked it, Sherlock. I wanna know why._

On the very tip of his tongue he had: _for you, because I’d do everything for you, just let me prove it, let me show you nothing’s changed, it couldn’t have changed John, it’s always been and always will be only for you_ , but he didn’t say that. He honestly can’t remember which lie provided by his mind he agreed with; in the end, it doesn’t matter. John was too furious to actually listen, and Sherlock will remain the only person who knows the truth.

Mary had said she’ll _talk him ’round_. Of course, she will. When the first shock is over, John will accept his apology, whichever Sherlock offers, and everything will be back to how it used to be.

At least that’s what he keeps telling himself walking down the street. He couldn’t bare the mere thought of hailing a cab back to Baker Street alone.

*

Lestrade phones him a week after he came back, asking for his help with a case that the Yard can’t work out. From what Sherlock hears it is a trivial case, yet he agrees to come anyway: quite possibly only out of habit.

First time in, John’s voice echoing in his head doesn’t allow him to work and Sherlock flees the crime scene without a word, leaving Lestrade empty-handed. The second time he’s better at ignoring the accusatory, hurt tone of John’s voice that, after all, can’t come from anywhere else but himself, but it’s still not enough. Lestrade shoots a concerned look at him, and Sherlock ignores him, just like he ignores the fact that Inspector just _knows_.

*

After a two weeks Gregory calls him again, and this time, before he follows, Sherlock texts Molly Hooper. It’s the first person that comes to his mind, besides: it’s not like he has much choice.

"Molly, would you like to—”

"Have dinner?”

"Solve crimes?”

—They say simultaneously.

Molly agrees. Sherlock suspects it’s mostly pity that drives her decision. He decides to brush it off of his mind.

*

Solving crimes, deducing the criminals’ intent, following their actions step by step: it’s always cleared his mind. He used to make a performance out of his work, he used to elevate it to the status of art. It’s been more than a profession, more than a job. He used to be the only one in control, the master of his own game, the strongest pawn. His body used to respond to his work like to a challenge, sending a signal to the adrenal glands to release the adrenaline. It all used to matter.

He follows Lestrade down the stairs, to the basement. The human skeleton sitting in a Shakespearean-like pose would have seemed to be a treasure trove full of mysteries to him. It ought to fascinate him.

It doesn’t.

He solves the case. He doesn’t even tell his own brain to shut up that often. It all turns out to be fake, but Sherlock can’t force himself to care, even in the slightest.

Lestrade just looks at him and Sherlock knows what’s coming.

"This going to be your new arrangement, is it?” he asks quietly so that Molly can’t hear them.

"Just giving it a go.”

He shrugs. What else is he supposed to say? They both know the story.

Gregory meets his eyes and doesn’t let go.

"So, John…?”

"Not really in the picture anymore.”

Lestrade stands there, dumbfounded, as Sherlock leaves before the man composes himself to reply.

 _Coward_ , the John in his mind snaps at him, and Sherlock doesn’t deny.

*

A human heart weighs just ten ounces.

Sherlock doesn’t care about the metaphorical significance of this organ.

Barely does he wonder why all of a sudden _his_ heart weighs heavily on his chest, blocking his lungs and not allowing him to breathe.

*

Molly doesn’t go on cases with him anymore. Sherlock never offers it again, anyway. Lestrade always asks about John, and Sherlock never replies. Ironically, he notices, things are starting to fall into place.

Most often, after a few hours spent with Gregory or in his flat, taking clients, Sherlock goes out and keeps wandering around the city until the night falls down. Most often he ends up at the very same spot: at Northumberland St., in front of John’s new apartment’s doors.

In retrospect, he reckons he should have predicted Mary would notice, eventually. He didn’t predict it and it startles him when he almost bumps into her on a street.

"For how long?” She looks him in the eye.

They both know.

"How does it matter?”, turns out to be more of a statement than a question. Mary keeps watching him.

"I don’t want to come between your friendship, Sherlock,” she says. "I really don’t. John will forgive you eventually, that’s how he is.”

Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment. He feels like the realisation that there is now someone who knows John as well as he does (he does not even dare to think that, maybe, Mary knows John better) burns up every single neuron in his body.

"You’ll start talking again, but—” She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t have to. Sherlock lifts up his gaze to meet hers. "You had your chance.” Sherlock nods because he is unable of doing anything else. "Please, don’t try to—”

"I don’t intend to,” Sherlock cuts her off. "Goodbye, Mary.”

He shoves his hands in his pockets, though he suspects she’s already seen they’re trembling, and briskly walks away. Not daring to look back.

*

Mycroft finds him lying down on the sofa. He’s barely moved for a week. For the sake of Mrs. Hudson Sherlock pretends there’s nothing to do, no kidnappings or murders, and it seems the woman prefers this lie to the truth.

His brother sits down in a chair that John should be sitting in, and remains silent for a while, his eyes never leaving Sherlock.

"Say what you must, Mycroft, and leave,” Sherlock mumbles finally, opening his eyes to look at his brother.

"Is there anything left to say, though? Just look at yourself, Sherlock, look where this—”

" _Don’t_ say that,” he interrupts harshly, putting his feet on the ground and sitting up. "Don’t say that.”

Mycroft holds his gaze.

"It’s destroying you inch by inch.” Sherlock sighs deeply, closing his eyes and running a trembling hand through his hair. "You shouldn’t have let that happen.”

"Maybe I shouldn’t have indeed.” He stands up and goes to the window, stopping by the chair that used to belong to John for a spare of seconds. "But you can’t possibly know that.”

Mycroft huffs, irritated. He understood the allusion. Sherlock expected no less.

"He’s getting married, for God’s sake.”

Sherlock doesn’t listen.

*

When Mary appears in the doorway of his flat, Sherlock’s heart skips a few beats because he knows what it means.

He stops the motorbike; he takes Mary with him. During the ride she keeps showing him the messages, but it doesn’t matter. All his thoughts revolve around John, _John_ , John, John, John… He sees the bonfire and it must be it.

He runs into the fire without hesitation. He takes John out of the flames, his name still his only thought. Maybe he keeps saying it aloud, he doesn’t know.

He caresses John’s face with his shaking hands. Mary doesn’t stop him.

*

While kissing, thirty-four facial muscles contract.

Sometimes Sherlock wonders how John would taste like on his tongue. When he says his name, it’s bitter-sweet, it’s strong and incisive. Would kissing him taste the same? Or maybe his dry lips would make the kiss harsher and more animalistic?

In an alternate universe… In an alternate universe Sherlock cups his face in his hands and he kisses _everything_ off it. John, startled at first, quickly returns the kiss, clenching his hands on his coat, pulling him closer and closer, standing on his tiptoes to reach farther. And maybe after this first, feverish kiss John meets his eyes and kisses him again, and then it is a confirmation.

In this universe Sherlock can’t stop imagining John kissing Mary.

Both these universes are connected by the fact that thirty-four of John’s facial muscles contract.

*

There was only one possible scenario so the probability that it will happen was one hundred percent. Therefore, it doesn’t surprise Sherlock at all when the day after the kidnapping John shows up at the doorstep of their former home.

Sherlock jokes and John’s laughter is light and it’s almost like nothing has changed at all.

Sherlock hates everything.

For a moment, silence falls between them. John meets his eyes and nibbles his lower lip, and Sherlock knows what he’s about to say, and he can’t let him say that just yet. His _sorry_ is so quiet that it barely reaches John, but by how his posture changes, how he tenses for a second, Sherlock deduces he heard him. He doesn’t reply and Sherlock doesn’t expect him to do so. It only matters that John doesn’t bring up the wedding topic.

He’s know he’s pathetic. But when he looks at John, he realises that John is probably the only person in the whole universe that _doesn’t know_. John has no idea about the scars he bears outside and down the centre of him as a reminder of everything he’s done for him. He doesn’t know that all Sherlock’s dreams have been of him since the moment they met, he doesn’t know that every morning Sherlock wakes up with a still living memory of everything that never happened, or that he thinks about him everywhere, anytime, all the time, that he can no longer eat or even breathe normally when—

"So, last night… Who did that?” John breaks the silence.

Sherlock takes a deep breath.

That would be it.

*

John follows him on a case. Sherlock switches the bomb off and screws his uncertainty, holding on to the first thing that comes up in his mind.

"I-I can’t, John,” he says, folding to his knees. "I can’t do this. I don’t know how.” He swallows hard. “Forgive me. Please, John, forgive me for all the hurt that I’ve caused you.”

He can almost pinpoint the moment John’s heart starts beating quicker.

"No, no, no, no, no. It’s a joke.”

"No.”

"Another one of your bloody jokes. You’re just trying to make me say something nice.”

"Not this time.”

"It’s just to make you look good even though you’ve behaved like…” He breaks off. Sherlock folds his hands as if he was praying and shoots him a pleading look. "I just wanted you not to be dead.”

"Well, be careful what you wish for,” he says, letting the tears stream down his face. "If I hadn’t come back, you wouldn’t be standing there and— you’d still have a future… with Mary.”

"I know.” Sherlock looks away. It’s over. "Look, I find it difficult, I find it difficult, this sort of thing.”

"I know,” he doesn’t even have to lie.

"You were the best and the wisest man that I’ve ever known. Of course I forgive you.”

Sherlock swallows back the last tears and chokes off laughter. He laughs louder and louder.

He probably should have realised that in this universe, nothing will ever change. John found his way to heaven and he’s leaving, and Sherlock would never dare to stop him.

*

John writes on his blog that Sherlock is _like a drug_. Sherlock just snorts ironically.

John has absolutely no idea about it.

*

There are approximately one hundred billion neurons in a human brain. Oddly enough, in his brain all of them seem to work only for John.

*

John drops by a few times a week. At the beginning he helps him with cases, but as time goes by it becomes rare when he can actually _get out from work_. Sherlock doesn’t ask.

After three months, their meetings reduce to two a week, at tops. After five months, Sherlock only sees him once a three weeks.

He lies to himself that this is better for both of them. He even starts to believe it.

*

Finally, during one evening when only the "how’ve you been?” is shared, John finds the courage.

"Sherlock, uhm… I know these last weeks we haven’t been too close to each other, but it doesn’t change the fact that—” He clears his throat. "The best man. At my wedding.”

"Yeah, I think Mike Stamford would agree—”

"Stamford’s a good buddy but it’s a special day and apart from Mary I’d like to have my best friend next to me.”

"Oh, then I suppose Gavin should do well.”

"Who’s Gavin?”

"Lestrade.” He frowns.

John breaks out in pleasant laughter. Something in Sherlock’s rib cage dies.

"Greg,” he shakes his head, amused, "is a friend, but it’s you—” He stops. Sherlock sighs mentally. "You’re my best friend, Sherlock.”

"Best friend,” he repeats dumbly because that’s what it all comes down to. He feels unprovoked irritation, but he won’t let it show.

"Yeah, my best friend,” John assures him. He must have heard something in Sherlock’s voice and mistaken it for doubt. Well. Sherlock supposes that’s the least painful possibility. "Will you agree to be my best man?”

He doesn’t fight the tears that well up his eyes; at best John will mistake them for joy. He realises John loves him in his innocent, friendly way, and that demanding anything more is stupid, is bad, is idiotic. He, Sherlock Holmes, is a fool for thinking a man as good as John could ever want anything more. He’s a fool.

"Of course I agree, John,” he replies after a while. "It would be an honour.”

John smiles warmly.

"Maybe you’ll learn to enjoy weddings.”

Sherlock blinks the tears away, unnecessary now. John, of course, doesn’t notice.

"I wouldn’t be so optimistic about it.”

"All the hidden romantics hate weddings,” John says.

Sherlock doesn’t even want to think about how utterly unaware of everything John is.

*

Molly enters the Bart’s laboratory without knocking. Sherlock pretends he doesn’t notice her.

"Don’t say anything,” he snaps before she even gets the opportunity to speak. He feels her gaze all over himself so he draws back from the microscope.

"Sherlock—”

"I forbid you to say anything.”

Molly stares at him for a moment.

"It’s not too late yet. Do something so you won’t regret it later.” Then she’s gone.

Sherlock spits at the irony of her words. He regrets every second even though he knows it makes no sense. He’d turn back time and bleed out in front of John just to show him he’d do everything for him, but it would all end up here anyway.

*

He’s been writing his wedding speech for two weeks, changing words repeatedly to make it sound as ordinary as possible, a "hey-we’re-just-friends” sort of thing.

Eventually he gives up. The speech still sounds like a love letter but he is too drained to keep rewriting it.

*

"If anyone has reason for these two not to wed, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Sherlock’s lips tremble subtly. He feels Lestrade’s gaze all over himself, but he doesn’t find the courage to look back.

He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t dare to destroy John’s chance for a happy life, for children and a family he’s always dreamt of. Sherlock won’t tell him the truth, and John will never find out. He’ll watch John fall slowly into his new life, belong to it more and more, until their shared past will become just uncomfortable memory and a hollow talk when they bump into each other on a street "accidentally”, because Sherlock would break and he’d start following him again. There were many scenarios but he should have known that they will all come down to this point, in the end. Does the path they’ve travelled here matter? Hardly.

He doesn’t think about it. If he’d just let go, if he’d said everything he never managed to say, if he’d risked… It doesn’t matter. They would find themselves right here today, anyway.

 _Nothing is purposeless,_ he hears Mycroft’s voice say in his head. _I told you not to get involved._

The universe wouldn’t put them together for no purpose.

*

Sherlock thought they would have forever to find out.

"Till death do us part.”

His _forever_ ends just now.

*

John kisses Mary and smiles at her the way he used to smile at Sherlock and Sherlock has to remind himself over and over again that _nothing_ ever happened between them.

_He doesn’t love you, he doesn’t love you, he doesn’t love you._

*

"Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I’m capable. John—” He cuts off, trying to compose himself. "You sit between the two people that love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say I will never let you down and I have a lifetime ahead to prove it, although I will probably never deserve you in my life, no matter what I do.”

He hears quiet crying and frowns.

"Sherlock…”

"Did I do it wrong?”

"No you didn’t.” John raises to his feet and hugs him, his hand touches Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock melts at his touch, just for a moment, because few seconds later John draws back, smiling.

That’s enough for him. That has to be enough for him.

*

There are 350.000 children born every day.

In a few months, John’s child will be one of them.

"All the signs are there.”

"The signs?”

"The signs of three.”

Eight months. Eight months, more or less, that’s what he’s got left. He knows that if he doesn’t let him go now, he’ll only make all _this_ worse, more unbearable, but he can’t cut John from his life just now. He needs a couple of weeks more, maybe a month or two; he’ll celebrate every moment, every given opportunity, he’ll hang on every word he says, he’ll quiet it down and then melt away somewhere between one meeting and the one that will never happen.

Time will cure… whatever is happening to him.

John looks at him for too long and Sherlock’s smile fades away slowly, and he doesn’t dare to look away. For a spare of a second he notices a realisation of kind in John’s gaze, but the delusion becomes diluted when John turns away to look at Mary, and Sherlock remembers that John simply _can’t_ know.

*

_Dinner at Baker St? I’ve got Chinese. SH_

_Sorry mate, Mary’s sick. See you next time. John_

*

"Any cases… George?”

Lestrade looks at him under his furrowed brows.

"Greg. And step away from my car, Sherlock.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Besides, how do you know where I live? It’s confidential.” Sherlock only stares at him. As if Lestrade didn’t know him. "And what are you doing here so early in the morning, for god’s sake?”

"Ah, I was just admiring the view, it’s a beautiful neighborhood,” he says.

Lestrade looks at him carefully.

"Are you seeing him?”

Sherlock looks away.

Greg clears his throat. "Listen… Sherlock… Newlyweds just have to… kind of, pitch to each other. Do you understand? It doesn’t mean that he’s already—”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything but Lestrade must have read everything right from his face because he cuts off.

"Okay, Scotland Yard, then.”

*

_Case. Come ASAP. SH_

_I’m at work, Sherlock. Came back to the clinic. I need a stable salary because of… well, you know. J_

*

Lestrade takes him on every single case, even the most obvious ones, and Sherlock never denies.

Sherlock doesn’t thank him. Gregory knows.

*

A month passes. Sherlock knows the exact date, hours and minutes, when he saw John for the last time.

He has no idea who first said that time cures all things. He only knows they must have been an idiot.

*

One month and six days. One month and six days until John is _accidentally_ called on a home visit to one of the tenants in 220 Baker Street, and Sherlock _accidentally_ comes back home with grocery the moment John walks out of the building.

He’s pathetic, he knows.

For a long moment neither of them says anything and they just look at each other. John sighs and Sherlock takes it as an incentive.

”You’ve not called… for some time.” It takes all of his willpower not to shout right in his face the precise number of days he’s spent regretting the fact that he didn’t die then, three years ago, the precise number of hours he’s spent wondering what John was doing, the precise number of times he’s recalled every conversation they’ve had in his mind.

”You left my wedding rather quickly.” John meets his eyes.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

”I gave the speech, solved the murder, did everything I was supposed to do, therefore I did not see the point in staying any longer,” Sherlock lies smoothly. He knows John will believe him.

It’s really too damn easy.

”It was _my wedding_ Sherlock!” John raises his voice. ”I thought after everything that has been said—” He cuts off, breathing heavily. ”Okay, arguing in the middle of the street isn’t the wisest thing to do.”

Sherlock spreads his arms, pointing at 221B.

For a moment John only holds his gaze, and then nods his head and walks in.

John stops by the desk that Sherlock used to sit by during lazy Saturday mornings, listening to the sounds of John preparing breakfast in the kitchen, not thinking about anything in particular, just allowing himself to breathe in the domesticity.

Sherlock clears his throat, standing by the door. John doesn’t turn back to look at him.

”I told you I wanted you to be there. With me. On my wedding.”

”And Mary’s,” Sherlock adds quietly. John looks at him. “Yours and Mary’s.”

”Yes, mine and Mary’s,” he repeats. Then, silence again. John’s face softens. ”Listen, it— it wasn’t a joke. You’re one of the two most important people in my life.” John takes a deeper breath. ”You could’ve at least said goodbye.”

Sherlock holds his gaze.

”I did not realise that was a goodbye.”

John blinks.

”I’m sorry Sherlock, that’s not what I meant. Things have changed a bit but no, it wasn’t a goodbye.” He shakes his head as if he was having an inner argument with himself. ”You’ll always be a part of my life.”

Sherlock has _and you’ve always been and always will be my entire life_ right on the tip of his tongue but he doesn’t let this go so far.

He meets John’s gaze again and nods, confirming… he doesn’t know what.

”Tea?”

John agrees. Sherlock asks about the honeymoon and their trip. John doesn’t mention Mary or the baby too often. Sherlock starts to suspect that maybe, just maybe, John sees more than he thought.

*

He doesn’t see John for another eight days.

Eventually some afternoon John drops by at Baker Street after work, and sits next to Sherlock on the sofa. Their knees are touching, but _it’s all fine_.

John leaves, shooting him a bright smile. After the door closes behind him, Sherlock clenches his hands into fists and keeps hitting the wall until the purest physical pain overshadows his mind.

*

He has to remind himself a couple of times everyday that after all, this is why he faked his own suicide, this is why he gave up on everything he used to care about, this is why he sacrificed himself and backed away from his life for two years, this is why he let himself be tortured and beaten – so that John could be happy. With hindsight he knows that this has always been only half of the truth; but it doesn’t matter now.

John is happy. So he should be, too.

*

In a different universe maybe he’d have what he’d always wanted. Maybe, in that universe, he comes clean, and John _understands_ , and maybe his lips crash Sherlock’s in a heated kiss.

Or maybe they learn each other anew. John is free and wants to forgive, and Sherlock doesn’t have to pretend he doesn’t care. Maybe John moves back to Baker Street and maybe their knees touch again, until one lazy evening John’s hand covers his; and none of them say anything. John doesn’t say a word when Sherlock rests his head on his shoulder; his fingers automatically entwine in his soft, dark hair, and Sherlock gives in to his touch. Maybe their eyes lock and it breaks something in both of them, and their lips touch gently, carefully, examining one another. John closes his eyes, tasting him like wine, and the burden is gone from Sherlock’s chest, replaced only with the feeling of _John_ , his scent and his taste on his tongue; maybe Sherlock finally knows how he tastes.

Maybe John takes him to bed. Maybe he kisses his naked, vulnerable body – which in that moment is already his, and maybe he notices his scars and with a wordless _thank you_ places soft kisses on every one of them. Maybe he whispers his name, or maybe he says nothing at all. Maybe, in that universe, John looks at him as if he were the best that’s happened to him, breathes his scent in, clenching his hands on his clavicles, and then he embraces him, allowing Sherlock to relax, allowing him not to think, allowing him to drift away.

Or maybe in every universe, including the one he’s been placed in, John leaves, and Sherlock is left alone.

*

Twenty-three days pass. Sherlock wonders if he is ever going to stop counting them so neurotically.

John doesn’t apologise. He brings Thai in takeaway boxes, asks about the cases, and Sherlock cuts himself only to answering the questions he’s asking.

He leaves with a “I have to go back home” and Sherlock tries not to think when Baker Street – when Sherlock – stopped being home for John.

*

Sometimes, when he’s working at St. Bart’s, he goes out to smoke in the morgue. He listens to people crying, looks at their tears.

There’s only so much damage you can do.

*

Mycroft shows up at Baker Street one November evening, as always without notice or invitation.

“I see your dwelling in self-pity is going great.”

Sherlock shoots him an irritated look from the couch, not even bringing himself to the sitting position.

“And this is why you went through all this trouble to come here? You really have to be unbearably lonely.”

“I guess you could tell me a thing about that.”

Sherlock gets up abruptly, stepping onto the coffee table and then to his chair. Mycroft sits down in John’s chair.

“We have certain suspicions that our MPs in Brussels could have been… bribed,” Mycroft starts without preamble. “The Prime Minister has personally asked to bring this matter to your attention.”

“You have.” Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “I’m not interested.”

Mycroft measures him with his eyes for a moment.

“This case would take up to three months, add or take two weeks. Far from London, far from—“

“I am not interested,” Sherlock spits, meeting his brother’s eyes. “I’ve got work here.”

“Oh, do you? That is what you call following Inspector Lestrade and _begging_ him to let you on to his most routine work?”

Sherlock tightens his lips.

“It’s none of your business.”

“You’d be surprised, Sherlock.”

*

John calls him on January 7th. Sherlock doesn’t have to think for long to know what happened.

“Holmes,” he says flatly.

“Mary gave birth.” Sherlock hears the smile in his voice and something clenches inside him at this sound, at the realisation that it no longer belongs to him. “My son was born on the very same day as you. Feels like destiny,” John laughs, and Sherlock doesn’t know why there are suddenly tears in his eyes. He swallows. “Anthony Sherlock Watson.”

“J-John—” This is above him. John’s son (and Mary’s, and Mary’s, and Mary’s, _and Mary’s_ …) cannot be named after him.

“We’ve already decided. I want you to be a part of his life, Sherlock, not just daddy’s friend.” Sherlock doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even know if he can bring out any words anymore. “Would you like to visit us next week?”

“Of course,” he says weakly, because that’s what John is expecting from him. “My congratulations to the both of you,” he adds, because that is probably a proper thing to do.

“I’ll let her know. Take care, mate.”

John hangs up. Sherlock reaches for his secret cigarette supplies. He opens the window and lights the first one, not thinking about anything. He puts it out and immediately reaches for another.

* 

_I’ll go to Brussels. Organise a flight as early as possible tomorrow. No questions. SH_

_It is already painfully obvious, brother mine. I’ll send a car at 9. MH_  

*

“If John asked… Please tell him I’m on a case. Governmental, secret—“ He cuts off.

Mrs. Hudson nods sadly, watching him carefully. They both know John isn’t going to ask, but the woman doesn’t say anything. Sherlock almost wants to thank her.

*

London fades away in the dense grey clouds, and after a couple of minutes completely disappears and all that’s left is a memory overshadowed by the condensation of the water vapour.

He lounges on the chair, closes his eyes and materialises all the streets he and John have wandered on. The picture quickly turns into a half-thought, half-dream. John is running and Sherlock is chasing him, though he sees the man’s silhouette fading farther and farther away, until he is completely out of sight.

Sherlock never finds John in this or any other universe.

**Author's Note:**

> Works that were inspired by this fic:  
> my best friend Sofia made a [gifset](http://queerdraco.tumblr.com/post/141968838505/for-how-long-she-looks-him-in-the-eye-they)


End file.
